The Girl from Rawblood

by Catriona Ward

  Mary thought of their mutual dream of Dante, of the imagined calm and sunny warmth of Italy, suffused with verse. She smiled a little. She and Hephzibah had indeed asked much of their new home. It was no wonder they were so sadly disappointed both by the place and by themselves in it.

  Mary looked up to find herself observed by Don Villarca. He tipped his head toward her. The light slid on the graceful planes of his face.

  “And you, Miss Hopewell? Do you miss your native shores?” His inquiry was so close to her current thought that she stopped a moment to gather herself; she seemed to be scattering further and further apart as the conversation proceeded.

  “No,” she said. “England itself I do not miss. You speak of places, Hephzibah, which call to one’s nature—I have been visited by such feeling only once. It was my childhood home. We were compelled to leave it when I was very young, and so my memories of it are few, but they carry with them a potency. The house was under a hill and surrounded by wild moor, which covers much of that part of Devon. It was itself a wild place, with a name to fit it: Rawblood. But it was lost to us some years ago and has been rechristened, I think. There was some family lore that if we stayed too long from Rawblood, we sickened and died… Nonsense, of course, but…the heart yearns for reason in tragedy. For we left, we Hopewells. And, save me, we are all dead.

  “It was a peculiar house, of granite and slate. Misshapen, and all the rooms the wrong shape, even to my young eye. But the scent of the air and the curve of the banister…” She was surprised at her own eloquence. Rawblood seemed to rise in dark shapes about her, its walls built on the air like mist… “Certainly,” she said, “I have seen and lived in other, perhaps finer houses. But none have elicited in me the very particular sensation of being home. Even now, when I read a description of a view from a window in a novel, it is the view from my nursery in that house that comes to me. When I dream of a garden, it is always that garden, which was enclosed between the two wings of the house, as if held by two protecting arms…” Mary started. The room settled about her again. She had slipped, for a moment, across a border.

  “It does not matter,” she said. “That was very long ago.” She stared at Don Villarca. Something precious had been pried from her without her will.

  Don Villarca, for his part, was uncharacteristically silent, and it fell to Miss Brigstocke to ask him a question concerning the condition of the roads surrounding Siena.

  He stayed perhaps an hour and left behind him a void. It was at the moment of his departure that his effect on the women was most clearly felt. As the front door closed noisily behind Don Villarca (who was clearly unaccustomed to manipulating such things as latches by his own hand), Miss Brigstocke and Miss Hopewell looked at each other over the remains of the meager tea and then quickly away. They no longer knew themselves. Everything was twisted out of its proper form.

  “And he to lend us his carriage!” said Miss Hopewell, sweeping cake crumbs from the table. “I wish you had told him no, Hephzibah. All those favors, conferred on us, de haut en bas; it is most improper.”

  Miss Brigstocke stared at her, astonished.

  “So unsettling a countenance,” said Miss Hopewell crossly, blowing a strand of hair from her face. She stilled and went a little pale. “I have it,” she said. “It is a snake. His gaze is that of a snake.”

  • • •

  He called often, twice a week or more. He brought them small jars of honey, paints, and a songbird in a cage. He drove them out to see fields of wildflowers and the churches, which he thought would interest them. Very well; these were no greater liberties than they had extended to Reverend Comer. But Don Villarca would not be content: he inundated them with proposals for their entertainment, always touched with the slightest hue of the improper. It was never quite possible to discern where the impropriety lay, but they felt it most strongly.

  He vowed to obtain a balcony for the Palio that August that they might watch that delightful and violent spectacle together. The shining hides of the horses, the hard clamor of hooves as they raced in the streets…it was most stirring. And some years, no one died at all! If that was not agreeable, perhaps he might be permitted to escort them to Rome for Holy Week? Or he would engage a new bathing machine at the beach. Or he himself would hold a dance for them, perhaps for twenty couples, with them as hostesses!

  Each time, they gainsaid him, flustered. Still, Don Villarca importuned. At Miss Hopewell, still, he smiled with white teeth. He could not be in her presence without falling victim to amusement. As for Miss Hopewell, she felt a great pressure within her, a hand tight about her heart. She lived those weeks as if in a fever, her judgment and her wits disordered. She felt that she behaved like a zany. And yet, she followed still as if drawn by a string. Miss Brigstocke inquired of Mary, did she not like the man? This reserve, which then gave way to bursts of impropriety, of temper, this immoderate behavior—it was so unlike her.

  “It is like one of those old tales,” Miss Hopewell replied. “One has conjured the djinn; one now must accept the consequences.” With this gnomic utterance, Miss Brigstocke had to be content, for Miss Hopewell would say no more.

  • • •

  The three sat in a row on a balcony at the Palazzo Chigi-Saracini in Siena. Don Villarca’s midnight-blue satin arm was flung carelessly across the balustrade. His diamond-studded cuffs sent particles of light across the hall. The night was warm. In the crowd below, fans waved gently like the white caps of the rolling sea.

  The interval had not come a moment too soon for Miss Hopewell. The brightness of the lamps and the movement of bodies seemed dazzling. She shivered in her cheap cambric. The singers were shrill and out of tune, the story incomprehensible and crudely told. She feared she had the migraine. Don Villarca asked her if she were well.

  “Quite well,” she answered, then could not help but add, “All of this town has the odor of hot dust. The place is so dry. It makes its way in at the casements, into the clothes, and the food… You cannot exclude it. I feel it in my eyes and in my throat.”

  “It is a particular thing about Siena, this dust,” said Don Villarca in his pleasant voice. “But dust is not dust, is it? Not in truth. It is the earth, which is composed of many things, caught up by the wind. For instance: Senio and Ascanio, sons of Remus, who founded the city; the Medici popes; and Signore Pisano who built the duomo—they do not perish, but remain. All are buried here in the earth, and that earth has in time grown dry and lifted into the air, moving from place to place, settling and rising, whirling around us and under our feet! Do you see? This”—he sniffed the air—“is that painter who lived with his mistress and died disappointed at Fiesole! And this”—he wiped his finger down the curtain that fell beside them and showed it to Miss Hopewell, where it bore a dusty mark—“is a little girl who sees visions and was burnt at the stake in the square. This is the plague that killed two thirds of the city in 1348. This is a loyal hound who dragged his master from a burning building during the battle of Montaperti, and this—”

  Miss Brigstocke, who had followed this exchange with interest, broke in with a laugh. “But how gruesome, Mr. Villarca! You speak of breathing in old bones!” She patted Mary’s hand and turned to the stage. “Ah, I believe that we are going to begin again. See how that lady appears! Large people are so fond of red satin. It is mysterious…”

  Don Villarca turned to Mary, his eyes narrow, lit windows in the night. He held her gaze as he licked the dust from the tip of his finger.

  She rose from her seat, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Don Villarca rose also. He drew Miss Hopewell farther into the shadows and regarded her. She thought that, in this light, his skin had a fine sheen, which was like the surface of water, silken. Miss Hopewell looked away and coughed, hard and long, into her handkerchief. He waited beside her, quiet as a cat. When it was done, she looked up with weeping eyes.

  “I cannot bear that you should
look at me and speak to me so,” Mary said. She lifted the handkerchief from her mouth. “As a man who knows nothing at all of suffering, you speak of it like a game. As one to whom everything has been gifted, never earned, never valued. You do not fear to be turned to dust, because you love nothing. You seem an empty man, a man made of paper. Pouf!” Mary made a fluid gesture, showing the paper man rising, like the dust, in the wind, but then she blanched and swayed, her handkerchief at her mouth. “Silliness,” she said.

  He reached forward and grasped her elbow. With his other hand, he touched her handkerchief with the tip of a nail. “My character gives offense,” he said. “It is not the first time.”

  Mary’s eyes were great in her face as she looked on him. “No, that would not make you offensive to me,” she said. “Despicable, perhaps. A rich fool. But it is not so. You are guarded all about by luxury, true. Yes, you are armored by money. The silk, the jewels… You parrot the lines of a spoiled man. It is adept silliness. It is a guise. You care nothing about it. No, sir—do not protest. For I see you for what you are. I glimpse what lies beneath all your seemings. It is ruthless. You cannot deceive me as you do others. I saw you truly in the garden that day. I have seen your heart, and it is cold.”

  They looked on one another. Music cut through the air about them. Lights moved in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

  “What have you done, I wonder?” said Mary Hopewell. Dark, the scent of sage and night earth filled her senses. “What is it? I am not deceived.”

  Don Villarca gazed at her. “What a great pleasure,” he said, “lies in the condemnation of others.”

  “You are wrong, sir. I take no pleasure in it.”

  “You are lying, Miss Hopewell, and not well. It will be your undoing.”

  She stared. Her heart was a drum. “Slander,” she said. “Despicable, ineffectual—and mere slander. If you are to do evil here, you must try harder than that.”

  “If you are at home tomorrow, in the afternoon,” said Don Villarca, “I will come and do evil by appointment.”

  “There is nothing to be said between us two,” she said.

  His finger rested on the linen in her hand, a hair’s breadth from her own. He stroked the cloth gently, as one may stroke a small, soft animal. On the white could be glimpsed small flecks of blood.

  “I will come,” he said. “You cannot prevent it.”

  Miss Hopewell shrugged. She hid her fear. “It makes no odds to me,” she said, making her voice bright with dislike.

  They turned as one and went to their places on either side of Miss Brigstocke; they resumed their seats. Mary Hopewell placed all her attention on the play. Don Villarca lounged back on his seat and chewed at his thumbnail in a truly uncouth fashion, his eyes lidded. Miss Brigstocke soon felt that the opera was not good, that the evening was late. There was no demur from the rest of the party, and the carriage was so summoned.

  • • •

  When the sun rose the next morning, it showed Miss Hopewell’s pillow to be touched once more with crimson. She looked at it for some time and then summoned Miss Brigstocke to her chamber.

  “I must rest,” she said. “I will rise at noon. Will you give me the camphor basin and ensure that my straw-colored silk is pressed?” It was not a habit with Miss Hopewell to ask for concessions in this fashion. She did it awkwardly.

  Miss Brigstocke embraced her. She would do all that was necessary. For Mr. Villarca was coming to call that afternoon, was it not so? (Mary suppressed her habitual spurt of irritation at the incorrect address—Hephzibah refused to use Don Villarca’s title, which she thought unnecessarily foreign and full of airs.) Well, they all enjoyed his visits! Such quaint things he said. Miss Brigstocke would fetch her the moment he arrived. She could be comfortable and rest until then.

  With that, Miss Brigstocke bustled off, her eyes bright with purpose. She brought Mary a tonic, the basin, and ribbons for her hair. And she would be back to rouse her upon their caller’s arrival. Miss Hopewell took the tonic and sank gratefully into her pillows.

  • • •

  She woke to the singing of crickets at dusk. A dream, half recalled; a hand pressing on the back of her neck like the heavy, slow passage of a snake. The straw-colored silk lay on the chair, gray in the evening light. The scents of the kitchen rose through the boards. Gabriela was singing below in a tuneless voice. Miss Hopewell threw back the covers and ran on bare feet down to the parlor where Miss Brigstocke sat with a candle, her cross-stitch in her lap. They regarded one another.

  “He did not come,” said Miss Hopewell. It was not a question.

  Miss Brigstocke shook her head.

  “I dreamt that I heard his voice,” said Miss Hopewell, “and then yours, speaking together.” She looked at Miss Brigstocke in mute appeal.

  Miss Brigstocke shook her head once more, her eyes soft, and bit her lower lip. “My love,” she said. “I have often thought that perhaps he is not entirely kind, Mr. Villarca. He does give one the shivers, does he not? I have ever had a distrust of men who manicure. Perhaps it is no bad thing to draw back from his acquaintance.”

  “Hephzibah, I am a fool,” said Mary Hopewell. “But I have been spared.” She gave a little watery laugh, turned on her heel, and went from the room.

  • • •

  Miss Hopewell awaited Miss Brigstocke by the panetteria, as arranged between them. Hephzibah’s needs had taken her to the seamstress, but she had assured Mary it would be but a moment. The scent of bread was welcome, elevating to the spirits. It was a gray day; the sky above lowered, presaging rain.

  Miss Hopewell saw presently that William Shakes leaned upon a wall opposite. He stuffed a pipe with sure fingers, face intent. When he perceived Miss Hopewell, he cocked a friendly eyebrow in her direction and crossed the road to join her.

  Mary said, “Well, you are the picture of ease!”

  “Mostly am,” he agreed. He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “I am pleased by this chance,” he said, “for I wished very much to tell you: I have been lately home. Don Villarca and I have been to Dartmoor.”

  “Why?” Miss Hopewell asked sharply. “What should he be doing there?” She was greatly disturbed. Once more, Don Villarca trespassed on what was most precious to her. “It is quite your own business, Mr. Shakes,” she said. “I wonder, however, what loyalty binds you to him? To such a—” Miss Hopewell bit her tongue, but her eyes were speaking.

  “I fought beside him at Albuera, you know,” said Mr. Shakes comfortably. Strong tobacco smoke curled in the air. “’Tis how we came by one another. That is why it is quite informal between us. War does not distinguish gentlemen and mere men.”

  “Albuera… But Don Villarca is surely not so old as that?” said Mary. And then, mortified, “I beg your pardon.”

  Mr. Shakes showed her his slow smile. “No,” he said. “Do not trouble yourself. Men wear their age in two ways, out or in. I wear mine in my face, but my heart is easy. He’s pretty enough, but his years lie heavy within.

  “When we met, all those years ago, he was young outside and in. So was I, for that matter. War put paid to that, in the end. Albuera, eh,” said Mr. Shakes. “We waded in blood that day. Those who wrote the dispatches called it a victory. We knew better. What the French did in the towns… No one should see such things. The stench of corpse smoke. I will recall it all my days… Forgive me. I forget myself.”

  “You will find no reproof here,” said Mary. “All the men in my family are military men. Each one. Were military men, I should say. My father was killed in the Peninsula in ’07, the year I was born.”

  “There were many left fatherless by those times,” said Mr. Shakes.

  “I do not recall him; I cannot pretend to a tragedy I do not feel. But my brothers… Major William Hopewell, 16th Light Dragoons. Major Henry Hopewell, 7th Queen’s Own Hussars.”

  He asked, “Wate
rloo?”

  Miss Hopewell nodded. Tears rose in her throat. Old grief. “That,” she said, “I do recall.”

  “Cavalry are very bold,” said William Shakes. Nothing else was spoken between the two of them for a time. Each was wrapped in their own thoughts.

  At last, Shakes said, “Miss Hopewell.” The Devon was strong in his voice. “Soldiers are the only men I understand. And in his heart, Don Villarca is a soldier still. He is as a brother to me. So I understand what has been taken from him, by life and by war. And I think that perhaps you also understand these things. I hope that you would know a suffering heart, however disguised.”

  Into Miss Hopewell’s mind, there leaped unbidden an image of a young Don Villarca, whose face was open and untouched by the dark. “I had not known,” she said, “that he was in that war, or in any war at all.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Shakes. “I thought you might not know, perhaps. Well, good day, Miss Hopewell.” He went, trailing pipe smoke behind him.

  “Dear Mary,” said Miss Brigstocke, “do you intend to stand outside the bakery or to go in it? For I believe the rain is upon us.” She clutched to her a little parcel, the contents of which she proceeded to describe. A paper of needles, merely, and some silk. For they had not the kind of worsted she wanted for stockings. “Goodness,” said Miss Brigstocke, “someone has been smoking here. It is positively pungent.”

  Miss Hopewell allowed her arm to be taken. She allowed herself to be drawn under the awning of the panetteria as the first heavy drops of rain fell. She felt strange and deeply fretful. She did not wish to be asked to reconsider her ideas.

  That evening, the two women sat as usual in Mary’s chamber. Miss Brigstocke began, as was her habit, to offer up the thoughts and actions of her day for Mary’s delectation. From the unreliable character of Italian servants, to the wide cracks in the floorboards, which plagued the women greatly (imagine, dear Mary, if we were to take them up; what things we might discover! Perhaps your ring also fell in there!), Miss Brigstocke’s mind roved widely. She contemplated the problem of removing the red Italian dust from the hems of her gowns, the elegance of those dogs (the little greyhounds that one could carry), and the slovenliness of the local butcher, and thence moved on to shopping in general. Idly, she began to describe a piece of lace that she had glimpsed that morning. She had been much taken with it. So pale, so intricate, the way it fell in folds like running water, and when light shone through it, the pattern was revealed: endless arabesques of blossom and curlicues, repeating themselves, over and over…